


Some Things Are Better Left Forgotten

by Firefly264



Series: The Fakes [3]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Sexual Content, Italian Mafia, Mafia AU, Michael's Dad, Multi, Past Abuse, Polyamory, Trans Female Character, fem!Jack, fictional dad, i'm sure the real mr jones is lovely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4671128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firefly264/pseuds/Firefly264
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Michael's past comes back to bite him in the ass</p>
<p>(or, that AU where GTA!Michael grew up in the mafia)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to finish this before posting, buuuuut it went from two short chapters to three long ones and now this train has no brakes. It's almost done, so the finished product should be posted soon!
> 
> (I spent actual time researching the actual mafia while writing this. Definitions and explanations will be in the end notes of each chapter.)

Michael doesn’t keep a lot of secrets from his crew, but the ones he does… Well, they’re secret for a reason.

Ray is surprised when he’s told that Michael only joined the Crew officially a year and a half ago. Michael supposes that it does seem odd, given how elite the main five (then four, now six) must appear, but he’d been in correspondence with Geoff and their contacts at RoosterTeeth for months leading up to his ‘departure’ from home. Hell, by the time he showed up he already had a long-distance thing going with Lindsay, and then the whole drama with _Gavin_ started and shit got _very_ awkward for a while.

But now it’s been a solid 18 months, and Michael is content to wear a ring on a chain so he doesn’t lose it and try to keep Gav in sight at all times (because that idiot can get himself into trouble _anywhere_ ), and he has a job that he loves and a crew that he loves more. He has a whole workroom where he can hole himself up in and tinker for hours on end, fixing busted comms and building more explosives to put into storage with the rest until they’re needed. He’s got fast cars and money and always carries a weapon somewhere on his person. Life in Los Santos is good.

Jersey was different. Jersey was Gran making huge dinners while his dad and uncles brought in all their boys and talked business. It was a bakery he helped Mom run until he was eight, when his dad drove him out to one of the warehouses and handed him a gun for the first time, telling him to aim for the targets painted on the side of the building. It was running cash through alleys when he was twelve, watching deals go down at fifteen, getting into knife fights with guys a foot taller than him who thought they could get to the family through him. Jersey was the knowledge that it wouldn’t work; that in the end Michael was just another fighter, another pair of fists and a gun for his father to use as he fought for every scrap of power he could reach.

But he's put that behind him, he thinks as he stands on Mount Chilliad, Gavin in the car texting Geoff that the cops are off their asses, looking down on the city he’s claimed with a barely-there smile.

Gavin approaches quietly, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting his head on Michael’s shoulder.

“All okay, boi?” He asks, and Michael is hit with a rush of fondness for his stupid Brit. He presses his lips to windswept brown hair.

“Perfect,” he says honestly, and they wait there together for the all clear to head back home.

* * *

 

He doesn’t think about Jersey for another week after that, caught up in celebration of a successful heist before being swept into the business side of things, stuck in meetings and negotiations. But when he does, it’s not so much reminiscing as it is a swift punch to the gut courtesy of his phone.

When he doesn’t recognize the number, he gets suspicious. Everyone’s accounted for, holding a gaming marathon that he was just about to join, so it’s not a disposable cell or payphone call from someone needing backup. No one outside his crew and a select few others know the number, and he’s been wiped from all telemarketing lists because all those calls were annoying as fuck.

He retreats to his room and picks up before the last ring, waiting for the caller to speak first.

“Michael Jones?” Are their first words, and his blood runs cold. He doesn’t just _tell_ people his last name, that’s just _asking_ for trouble.

“Who’s asking?” He replies harshly.

“The Don’s been lookin’ for you. Wants to talk business.”

He hangs up and tosses his phone into the back of the closet. Michael is almost shaking, with fear or rage he doesn’t know; all he knows is that he left that part of his life behind a long time ago, and he’s sure as hell not going back now.

He takes a moment to calm himself before heading back out into the penthouse, claiming the seat next to Ray and snatching the controller from Jack when she dies.

“Who’s ready to get their ass kicked?” he asks, a vicious grin plastered on his face. This, he decides, is just what he needs.

* * *

 

The calls keep coming. He ignores most, picks up some, and all set him further and further on edge. It reaches the point where the others start noticing.

When his phone goes off at dinner and he jumps, a scowl slamming down across his features, Geoff gives him an odd look and Ryan and Jack exchange glances. Ray side-eyes him and goes back to eating. When it happens again in the heist room, he makes the excuse that Lindsay must want to talk to him but doesn’t actually answer the phone.

It goes on like this for three days, until suddenly, it doesn’t.

He can’t find his phone.

He checks every drawer in his room, under the bed, in the closet and bathroom, in the jeans he was wearing yesterday, _everywhere_. And when he finally goes to check the rest of the apartment, Ray’s leaning against the kitchen counter, idly tossing the cell up and down and whistling. Their eyes lock immediately.

“Give it back,” Michael growls, and Ray shakes his head.

“Not until you tell me who keeps calling you.”

Michael snorts, “Since when is it any of your business?”

“Since you suddenly became popular. Seriously, it’s rung like three times since I picked it up last night.”

Michael pales.

“You didn’t answer it,” he says in a worried rush. Ray looks confused and shakes his head. Michael breathes a sigh of relief.

“Good. Don’t. _Ever_.”

“Dude, I just took it so you’d talk to me. What’s going on?” Ray’s dropped the pretense of idle chat and leans forward intently. “You won’t talk to me or Gav, you haven’t gone to Geoff, and I can guess you haven’t talked to Lindsay.” Ray, for all that he acts like a distant asshole, is too perceptive by half, and cares too much for his own good. “Are you in trouble? Blackmail? Assassins? Seriously, I’m just gonna keep coming up with worse scenarios if you don’t tell me.”

“ _I can’t tell you_ ,” and yes, he knew Ray would be smart enough to notice the shift, the change from _won’t_ to _can’t_. The younger man nods after a moment of silence and walks over to hand the phone back instead of tossing it. As he presses the device into Michael’s hand (does he know how _insane_ he’s driving him, how Michael _wants_ but isn’t sure -) he leans in to whisper in his ear before disappearing into his room.

Michael stares at his phone.

“ _We’ve got your back_.”

He picks it up the next time it rings.

* * *

“Michael Jones.” It’s not a question anymore.

“Put me on with the _caporegime_ ,” he orders, and there’s a surprised silence on the other end before he hears the click of lines changing and the sound of phones changing hands.

“Mikey-boy!” He knows the voice like he knows the nickname; as a fond, long-ruined memory. Uncle Lorenzo was always kind to him, always had his back when he and Mom needed out of the house for a night even if Dad would be furious with all of them the next day. He’s lucky that it’s not one of his other uncles; they’re always fighting for favor with Dad like they did with _Nonno_ before he died.

“Lorenzo,” he says curtly, and he can picture the way his uncle’s smile drops. “Care to explain why you can’t leave me alone?”

“Your dad’s been asking for ya, kiddo. Wants you back home.” Of course he does. He never took well to losing any of his things.

“I’m not going back,” he says. “You can tell the old man to go fuck himself with his pistol.”

Uncle Lorenzo makes a disappointed sound, “I really wish you’d just come nicely, kid. He’s ready to send in the cavalry.”

_He knows where Michael is_. Immediately he starts thinking up escape plans, distractions, anything to avoid the family. But no, he can’t leave. Not now, not when everything’s finally going right.

“The Commission –“

“Approves. You were good, Mikey, too good to lose. Your family misses you.”

“ _Like hell you do_ ,” he snarls, something in his chest twisting painfully. They miss his explosives, his brawn, not him. “Just take the fucking hint; I’m. Out.”

His uncle sighs heavily, “Don’t say we didn’t warn you. I really did try, Michael.”

For once, he’s not the one to hang up.

He’s left standing on the balcony of his apartment, looking down on his city with a growing sense of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. He jumps, startled, when Lindsay wraps her arms around him from behind and presses hot, lingering kisses to the back of his neck.

“Everything okay?” She asks. Fuck, he loves her. More than this city, more than his bombs and guns and cars, he loves her. Every so often he’s stuck by how lucky he is to have her with him. It’s different than with Gavin; with Gav, it’s fast and messy and desperate fucks after near-misses and falling asleep wrapped in each other after the fear that _this time the respawners won’t work_. But she’s steady; being with her is going home, a safe harbour, and he could stand there thinking of sappy metaphors all night but that’s dumb, so instead he wraps himself around her, tugs her hair until she growls against his mouth and digs her painted nails into his shoulders. And it’s just them standing above their city, so late it’s early.

And from the East, a storm approaches.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things escalate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of shenanigans are responsible for the delay even though this chapter has been finished since before I posted chapter 1. The last chapter is just about finished as of me posting this, and it looks like there may be an immediate follow-up fic (likely one chapter, but no guarantees) once this story is complete.

He doesn’t bring it up for two reasons; he can handle it himself, he’s sure, and that stupid _omerta_. _‘Family secrets’ my ass_ , he thinks. But mostly, because he can handle it. He convinces Kdin not to tell Geoff about the extra surveillance he sets up, making sure no one suspicious enters the city without him knowing about it. The family’s not exactly subtle – not that they ever needed to be, right across the river from the Five and settled squarely in the center of Jersey’s criminal underground.

But it’s been nearly two weeks, and he’s starting to think it was a bluff. If he was a few years younger and softer, it might have worked. They’re underestimating him.

Michael lets things start to go back to normal, date nights and game marathons and routine jobs with Geoff (who he knows is secretly a needy bastard, so he makes sure to join him on two-person jobs and pay attention to him for a few days. Bastard’s like a cat, going from aloof to clingy like a fucking boomerang). He feels secure in his place in the Crew, and starts letting himself think his city is safe (safe being a relative term when the Fake AH is involved).

So he lets himself think little of it when he takes his new bike (a customized red Ninja which is now and forever his baby) for a late-night ride on the edge of downtown and a worn-out minivan follows him a little too closely. He’s got two guns and a knife on him, a crew with eyes all over the city, and more experience than anyone expects from a young, dumb twenty-something.

What he doesn’t have with him in body armor or a respawner, which he realizes when his back tire is blown by a well-aimed bullet, causing his bike to swerve into the median. He’s thrown off his bike into the thankfully empty highway. A few cars change lanes to avoid the crash but no one bothers stopping to help. In Los Santos, you learn to stay out of it.

Cursing and holding himself awkwardly as a spike of pain shoots through his side from his ribs, he turns as the van rolls up beside his poor, wrecked bike and draws a semi-automatic pistol. One of the side doors slides open and he snarls and lifts his gun. Three men, all in black with weapons drawn and aimed at him, step out. They fan out. He could try and run, but he’s not _that_ stupid; he sees at least one compact M60, he wouldn’t get ten feet before getting shot.

“The fuck do you want?” Michael barks, not moving to run or retaliate but not backing down just yet.

“Family business,” says one of the men. Of course it would be the one with the machine gun, so Michael can’t do what he usually would when anyone tries to boss him around and break his nose. “Get in the van.”

Michael takes a moment to weigh his options. The Don means business, obviously. But he can’t be stupid to try and take Michael out of the city, so he managed to slip past Kdin’s surveillance sometime in the last few days. He also can’t be stupid enough to actually attack; Michael may be a deserter, but he’s a made man and the Don’s son, so he hopefully has some measure of protection under the Commission’s laws.

This might be the dumbest thing he’s done in a while, but he stows his gun back in his belt and gets in the van, trusting the Crew’s eyes in the city – and the chip in his phone that’s linked to Gav’s tracking set up – to get him found before this all goes wrong.

* * *

 

The ride is silent, as expected. He half-recognizes the driver and gunmen, old hands of his father’s. One of them might be the man who taught him about remote detonators, or married to the woman who taught all the boys about field bandages and stitches, or the delivery boy who always begged Mom for fresh goodies when he brought in that week’s ingredients. He keeps his gaze resolutely forward, looking out the tinted windows instead of them.

They drive outside the city limits, which Michael supposes is smart. The Crew doesn’t own much on the southern end, so he doesn't recognize the warehouse they pull up to. When he’s allowed to step out of the van, he sees that the area around them is empty and flat on all sides. The paved space is large enough to be a small airfield, and there are three more cars, all with New York plates, are parked in a semi-circle around the building.

He grunts and frowns deeply as the barrel of a gun shoves at his shoulder, moving him forward. He keeps his hands clenched in fists at his side and lets himself be guided inside, swearing under his breath when the weapon jabs too hard into his arm.

It’s so painfully cliché that he almost wants to laugh, from the mobsters all in black to the flickering lights in the empty warehouse. All that’s missing is the briny stink of the Atlantic and Michael could almost make himself believe he was twenty and eager to prove himself again. The Don has never been the most intimidating man, preferring to let his reputation precede him. He’s of average height and build, had started balding at thirty, and his expression was always one of tightly-pinched displeasure.  His eyes are cold under the brim of his stupid cliché hat, and he has a stupid cliché accent to match his stupid cliché _existence_. It’s like he watched _The Godfather_ and spent the rest of his life grooming himself to fit the role, only to turn out like a campy 80’s villain. Michael despises everything about him, and he sneers in disdain when the man turns to face him.

“Michael,” he says coolly, watching him with a calculating expression. “Have you finished your little tantrum?”

Michael feels white-hot anger burning in his chest, but facing his father again brings back years of being taught to go numb, to repress until he exploded, and to let that explosion be guided towards his father’s enemies. He swallows hard and goes cold.

“A phone call would’ve worked,” he replies. The Don arches a brow.

“I tried that.”

“No, you had your _capo_ try. It’s not the same thing.”

The Don sighs, the same exasperated sound he always made when Michael was young and dumb and wouldn’t follow instructions. Like he’s still dealing with a child.

“Whatever point you were trying to make, running and hiding in this trash heap of a city –“

“ _I wasn’t trying to make a goddamn point!_ ” He shouts. For once, his father is silent, stunned by the outburst. “You can’t keep me penned up like an animal, and _obviously_ you couldn’t stop me from making it out of Jersey. I told you I was getting out, and I got out. How much clearer do you want me to be? Should I put it in writing? Sit in front of a camera and _damn_ every single one of you –“

He hears the strike before he feels it, a resounding _crack_ that sends him reeling. His head snaps to the side just as a burst of pain explodes from his cheek. He stumbles back, chest heaving. He hadn’t even noticed his voice growing louder, his shoulders squaring and body settling into a fighting stance. The fight is knocked out of him in an instant as he flashes back to years of anger and fear and the knowledge that this man would cause him more pain than anyone he fought with in back-alleys or schoolyards.

“You will learn some _respect_ before you speak to me again,” his father hisses, arm still raised from where he backhanded Michael. “Now do as you’re told and _get back to your family._ ”

“Fuck you,” Michael says.

He knows he’ll regret this decision in a minute, but he draws his switchblade and lunges for the Don.

* * *

(Across the city, Gavin pulls out his tablet with shaking hands and goes to search for Michael’s phone. Jack tells Ryan and Ray to arm themselves. Geoff snarls silently as he paces by the window before grabbing his keys.)

( _No one_ takes one of their own.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An omerta is a vow of silence taken when being initiated into a family. Technically it refers to keeping silent when questioned by the authorities, but I figured it made sense to extend it to rival gangs, especially powerful ones like the Fake AH Crew (which, as pointed out in like the first part of the series, has ties to the national crime syndicate RoosterTeeth, and the two of them together are intimidating as all hell). If a man breaks an omerta he can be killed with permission from a capo or higher. 
> 
> (Please note: Michael has not broken his omerta. He has. Not. Broken it. No one in the Crew knows, though Jack and possibly Ray likely suspect, and Burnie has a vague idea of the situation since he hired Michael).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always have trouble with endings, especially when I know that the story isn't over yet. But this arc's conclusion works better as a separate fic, so please accept a too-long fight scene, angst and fluff instead of a decent finale.

Michael never got any sort of formal training. He learned how to hold a knife like he knew how to use it, how to throw a punch without breaking his fingers, and how to dodge. That’s all he ever needed. He threw himself into fights the way he did everything else; giving it everything he had and not backing down until he was the only one still standing.

His father had never thought to correct this, never thought to teach him any real maneuvers or techniques, but apparently knows plenty himself. The Don dodges smoothly and strikes between the shoulder blades as Michael’s momentum carries him forward. Michael stumbles but doesn’t fall, turning fast and bringing the heavy hilt of his knife up into the older man’s stomach. He has a moment to enjoy having landed a blow before a large hand closes around his wrist and twists. He cries out, the knife slipping from his fingers and his hand spasms. Something cracks, and he sees sparks as his father tosses him down. He lands on his injured arm and groans. The Don stands over him, sneering derisively. Michael rolls to push himself up with his other arm, using the Don’s jacket as leverage to pull himself to his feet, the man being pulled forward. When they’re nose-to-nose, they start grappling, Michael fighting dirty as he throws punches with one hand. His father gets a firm grip on the collar of his shirt and strikes him across the face. Michael spits blood on the asshole’s shiny black shoes.

The blade has been left forgotten on the ground. None of the men around them move to join or separate the two, knowing that getting involved will only land them in trouble; one or two even step outside, pulling out boxes of cigarettes. The two Jones’ see none of this. Michael sees red as his father coolly beats the shit out of him. Sure, he manages to get in a number of blows himself, but he’s used to being able to use his bulk and strength to overpower people. The Don is a few inches taller and broader, and has years of experience fighting hot-headed brawlers.

“Really, Michael,” the Don scolds, tone cool and condescending. “Didn’t I teach you better?”

“You never taught me shit,” Michael snaps back, slipping out of a chokehold and backing off, trying to catch his breath. At his father’s derisive snort, he huffs an angry breath and lunges forward again. He manages to hold his own for a minute before being flipped and pinned, his wrists pinned to the ground above his head. His injured arm protests, and he kicks ineffectively.

From outside, a novelty horn blares, and several men start shouting and shooting wildly.

Michael grins fiercely, “Play time’s over, motherfucker.”

The Don curses, bringing his elbow down on Michael’s face. He feels his nose break, a rush of blood pooling in the back of his throat. He coughs and hacks, still grinning madly even with his teeth stained red.

“Deal with the ones outside,” the Don orders too late. Two men fall in quick succession, the skulls obliterated by what Michael knows is the most powerful sniper rifle on the market. Immediately after, another trio rush to the hangar doors only to be met by a sticky bomb and a lazily-aimed pistol shot. The Don frowns deeply as Michael begins fighting with renewed energy, managing to break loose of the man’s grip and tackle him. They wrestle on the ground, the Don now angry enough to get sloppy.

When Geoff and Gavin – Michael does a double take, because those two together can cause more damage than any of them combined – storm in, he only has a moment to savor sweet victory before his father shoves him to the ground and scrambles for the knife that’s still lying on the ground. Michael’s eyes go wide. Bullets pelt the dirt around them but he knows his crew won’t risk hitting him.

“Michael, move!” Geoff yells.

“Working on it!” he shouts back, pulling his father’s leg out from under him. “Don’t even try, old man.” He takes an elbow to the gut and a kick to the face for that, but it’s worth it to see the man angry.

The Don manages to grab the blade’s handle, but Michael gets a hold of it half a second later. The two trade blows while what’s left of the Jersey fighters rally together to try and hold off the Fakes. It takes one minute for them to go down, and when Gav and Geoff start calling the all clear over the comms the Don is red-faced and snarling.

Pinned to the ground with a knife to his throat, Michael feels small again. He looks up with wide eyes, breath coming in short gasps.

“ _You can’t_ ,” he says hoarsely, feeling cold metal press into his skin. His father may not give a damn about him, but the Commission’s laws are the only laws his family has ever lived by in all the years he was stuck in the middle of everything.

“You struck first,” the Don says, as if this is justifiable. “It was… unavoidable.”

Later, Michael will hate himself for hoping that it means something when his father pierces his chest instead of slicing his throat. A small, pathetic piece of him hopes that maybe there was some part of his father that wanted him to live (even though the evidence in the old scars lacing his skin says that all the man has ever wanted was to cause pain that lingered long after the wounds closed).

What he knows to be true is this: the feeling of a lung collapsing is like nothing he’s ever experienced, like drowning in air and a horrifying lopsidedness in his chest; Ryan is as good a shot as Ray when he wants to be, and the Don dies more painlessly than the mercenary thinks he deserves; Gavin will whisper prayers memorized in youth into Michael’s ear, breath hitching as pained sounds of grief tear from his throat.

The dying man draws heaving breaths that has blood bubbling in his throat and spilling from his lips. The world around him is white noise and hands he barely feels until they press down on his chest and send pain lancing through him. His eyes are wide and glassy, fixed on the bullet hole in the center of his father’s forehead.

Dimly, he hears Geoff coaxing Gavin away from him, feels Ryan lift him and turn to carry him out. He makes a pitiful noise, his chest rattling as his head lolls back and he convulses in agony. Ray is standing over the body, blank-faced and pale, pulling the trigger of his rifle until he’s out of bullets and the corpse is unrecognizable.

“ _Hold on_ ,” he hears, and the fear in the Vagabond’s voice is palpable. “You idiot, you fucking _moron_ , stay awake.”

Drifting in and out of consciousness, tenuously aware of his surroundings, Michael knows Jack disregards every driving law as Geoff directs her to Caleb’s. Gavin’s nuzzling the side of his head, the motion achingly familiar, whispering “ _stay with me, stay with me._ ” And he wants to, _god_ he wants to, but the lure of unconsciousness is pulling him far

f a r

_a w a y_

* * *

When he comes to, his eyelids are too heavy to try and open and his mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton. He groans quietly and his face twists in discomfort. Everything seems muffled and distant.

His hand is warm.

With more effort than it should reasonably take, he peels his eyes open and turns his head. The pillow is scratchy and smells like sweat and disinfectant, much like the sheets and the rest of the room (though he's surprised he can smell at all, his nose braced and swollen and making his whole face ache). He’s at the clinic, then. A heart monitor keeps time and an IV drip pinches the skin on his inner elbow.

Lindsay’s asleep; her upper half sprawled awkwardly on the bed while she sits on an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair. His hand is too warm and starting to fall asleep, but he doesn’t have the energy or the desire to remove it from her grip.

It takes a moment to get his muscles to respond, but he manages to squeeze Lindsay’s hand hard enough that she stirs, murmuring nonsense and burying her face in the sheets before her head pops up. Her eyes go wide when they meet his, and a wide, relieved grin spreads across her tired face.

“ _Michael_ ,” she says, launching forward to cup his face and kiss him. He returns the kiss eagerly, still bone-tired and probably high on pain killers but enjoying the moment. “Oh god, Michael, you – you –“

He should have started worrying when she pulled away, but the dread doesn’t start until he sees the murderous look in her eyes.

“Lindsay,“ he croaks to no avail.

“If you _ever_ pull something like that again,” she hisses, “I swear to god, getting stabbed will be the _least_ of your problems.”

“I love you?” He tries, and she sighs heavily and runs her fingers through his hair.

“Damn right you do.” She stands, “I gotta tell Caleb you’re up, and the others are waiting. Gav only left because he was gonna pass out if he didn’t get some sleep.”

He feels rightfully bad about that, knowing how Gavin gets when he’s worried (obsessive, hyper-focussed, retreating into himself and away from the world until someone pulls him out of it), so he waits patiently while he’s examined, only complaining a little tiny bit. He hardly even fidgets with the IV line. He’s like the best patient _ever_. Caleb lectures him as usual, orders another month of bed rest before he even _thinks_ about explosions, and curtly tells him to get out of the clinic before the Crew sets up a permanent base and disrupts things even more.

Instead of Lindsay, it’s Jack who comes back into the room and forces him into a wheelchair.

“I’m injured, not fucking crippled,” he argues, but backs down from the Pattillo Death Stare.

“Don’t get stabbed and we won’t have this problem again,” she snaps back, before sighing and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You had us worried, Michael. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Yeah,” he replies distantly, staring at his hands where they lay in his lap. His left arm is bandaged tightly at the wrist, and flexing his fingers as Caleb tested his motor skills had hurt like a bitch. “…Me too.”

As promised, everyone but Gavin is waiting impatiently outside, and he can’t help but grin as his crew circles around him. Geoff’s looking at him in a way that has Michael knowing that uncomfortable conversations are going to have to happen sooner or later, and Ryan is masked as he always is in public and distant even as he gently helps Michael into the backseat between Ray and Lindsay, who keep shooting worried glances his way when they think he isn’t looking.

And when they get back to the penthouse, and he wheels out of the elevator and into the apartment, Gavin is passed out on the cough with his tablet on his chest, snoring loudly and shifting restlessly. Michael decides to surprise him, just for the hell of it, and doesn’t say anything as he rolls over beside his boyfriend. He starts running his hand through Gavin’s hair softly, and Gavin mumbles and nuzzles into his hand. Michael smiles.

“Hey, buddy,” he says softly. “It’s time to get up. I missed you.”

Gavin’s eyes flutter open, and Michael knows he’s in trouble but the instant relief that crosses the lad’s face when he sees Michael is worth everything. With Lindsay perched on the edge of the couch beside them and Gavin shrieking and all but leaping into his lap, it’s easy to remember why he fought so hard to get here and why he defied his family to stay. And he knows that he’s going to have to explain himself eventually, but Geoff and Jack are standing back with their arms around each other’s waists and Ryan’s still painted and obviously unsettled but his mask is off and his smile is growing, so Michael figures that for right now, none of it matters.

Nothing does, except this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School starts tomorrow, so I'm glad I managed to finish this before being drowned in academics. Remember to keep an eye out for the follow-up oneshot that will hopefully be out soon, as well as various other pieces for this series. Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Don and caporegime are both ranks within the Italian Mafia. Individual sects are referred to as families, and leadership can be passed down through the male line. The Don (or Godfather) is the head of the family, followed by the Underboss, and then the caporegimes (each in charge of a group of soldiers).   
> All members of the family are 'made men', meaning they're untouchable in the crime world. Attacking a made man is like a declaration of war. 
> 
> The whole of the American mafia scene is headed by a group of family heads called the Commission; they settle all inter-family disputes. You can't attack any made man without leave from the Commission. They work as a judiciary, voting on matters to resolve issues.   
> (There are 26 Commission-sanctioned mafia families, with the Jones family being a fictional 27th.)
> 
> Nonno is one word for grandfather in Italian.


End file.
